I woke up fairly late, still besought with tummy lurgy but pretty much alive. I managed to get down some tea and spent the rest of the morning messing around on the internet and enjoying the profound luxury of free wifi. Adam was going to meet me around noonish to get lunch and engage in some mandatory sightseeing, so I walked out to the Centre's lovely reflecting pool and drew for a bit before he showed up, flicking flies away from my face under the shade of the banyan tree.

(An older woman in a saree was doing six-foot long laps tirelessly and with grim determination on her face around the cement walkway the entire time, which I found kind of amusing.)

Adam called and told me that he was at the gate of the International Centre annex. I lit out industriously to meet him and discovered there are many different gates of the Centre Annex, many of which open up into the Islamic Centre and the French Centre and the ButtFuckistan Cultural Awareness Centre for all I know. We played a bit of phone tag and finally met up with each other, though I did manage to sneak up on him since he wasn't expecting me from the direction I arrived. I am tremendously unsubtle and am always very happy when I manage to sneak up on someone. We both were starving, so we decided to head for Khan Market, the Nicest Retail Space in Delhi, to get something to eat and then re-evaluate our strategem as it were.

We took an incredibly short rickshaw ride (but hey, it was hot outside) and wandered around looking for somewhere to eat. We finally found a fairly expensive Western place, but it was hot and we were hungry and we decided to go for it - and anyway, it was an interesting cultural vortex to suddenly step inside the air conditioned and atmospheric environs of a Western place, where no one gives you finger bowls or seeds or yells your order across the restaurant. Also no Hindi music playing. Just Total Eclipse of The Heart, which is about twelve times worse.

We were both thrilled to discover hummus on the menu and were forced to order it - it was delicious and even came with pita bread and these nice little crackery things. After two months of Indian food, it was a pleasure to be able to order vegetable fajitas with honest to god guacamole to go with. Even a very very small portion. I am probably going to spend a solid day upon my return making endless batches of guacamole.

We decided to visit the Lodhi Gardens, which are conveniently located next to the International Centre, extremely pleasant, and don't charge admission. It was wonderful to walk in the nice cool green of the gardens after the brutal heat of the Delhi afternoon, and I showed Adam around the tombs, which were almost deserted in the four o' clock lull.

There's one tomb I love in particular because it is so unexpected. You come to it after crossing a dingy little foot bridge - it looks like a rather simple falling apart stone wall - but you mount a flight of stairs and go through a small portal and you're in a lovely little courtyard, a path leading up to the dome and the simple stone cenotaph within it. The actual body in these Mughal tombs is apparantly buried about 10 feet below the marker, and an incense burner is usually positioned above it, hanging from the ceiling - although the burner has long gone from this one. I noted upon this visit that some of the original paintings on the dome are still preserved, rotting away but hanging on with faded brilliance throughout the years. I enjoy seeing paintings of that nature that have not been revised and revamped and reworked into oblivion but retain their originality - true, they should properly be preserved for latter generations, but it's pleasant to think some sort of essence of the artist itself lives on on the walls, not some modern-day restorer taking educated, educated guesses. But that's just me.

Adam enlisted the security guard to give us a brief run-down on the history of the tombs, and I half-listened and half watched the motions of the brilliant green parakeets, occupying the trees that grew in shabby profusion around the red brick courtyard walls. It was that nice part of the day where the light makes everything golden and attractive, and it was easy enough to imagine some sort of Mughal potentate making the rounds of the gardens round bout' evening -except there would be more roaming blackbuck and less joggers. It's really one of the most wonderful parks I've ever had the pleasure of walking in, full of carefully maintained plants and acres of pastel green grass, with lots of historical nooks and crannies to walk in and contemplate. I envy Sheila for living close enough to walk in it every evening - to be able to walk in such a place on a regular basis is good for the human spirit. It certainly is an improvement on doing afternoon laps at the Y.

We wandered over to the other tomb, which contained an adoining mosque. Apparently Muslim groups keep up the place to the immaculate standard it exists in; the government only does so much. The mosque certainly was lovely, elaborate red-marble work on display over the doorways and entrances. Little blue turquoise tiles still ran over the walls and the sides of the domed structure. Just as I love original paintings, I love detecting leftover bits of color and detail from a building's original heyday. They feel left over or forgotten somehow, like time and modernization have given them a brief reprieve, and it makes it so much easier to imagine what things might have been like.

I was feeling not so hot again and sat down for a while to watch the birds swoop by and the other park-goers breeze by (women especially in little bursts of color). A guy who'd been wandering in the park came over to talk to us about the working world in Delhi, which happened to be quite nice for him, and gave us a bit more background into the history of what, exactly, we were looking at. He apparantly was a big internet afficinado, so we gave him our contact information. He was also kind enough to get us an impressively cheap 60 rupee fare to the Red Fort - being native counts for entirely too much when it comes to getting rates that aren't highway robbery.

I was incredibly dehydrated due to being sick and actually got to the point where I couldn't talk because all moisture had apparantly been sucked out of my body. This was kind of amusing from a clinical stance. I do feel a new solidarity with those Foreign Legion types commonly portayed in cartoons, crawling in the Sahara desert, desperate for water. India even has plenty of vultures!

The Red Fort is indeed immense - the red sandstone walls and ramparts seem to go on forever, an imposing testament to just how powerful the Moghuls were during their hey-day. It's definitely more impressive in the late afternoon, as the sun gives the red stone a certain emotive warmth. We disembarked and I immediately ran over to a beverage stand and purchased a Sprite and an x-large economy bottle of water, which I downed in quick succession. (I think Adam was impressed. Or grossed out.)

We were walking along the walls of the Fort, attempting to find a way into the grounds, when my goddamn shoe broke. Now, that particular pair of shoes had proved fairly dependable: I had bargained hard for them in a Beijing department store, and they saw me through a drippy summer spent tromping through Tiananmen' square upwards of four times a day. Perhaps they wanted to choose a similarliy exotic place to give up the ghost. Unfortunately, a New Delhi bazaar street is one of the absolute worst places in the world to be running around barefoot, which was, at this point, my choice.

One good thing about Indian bazaar streets is that pretty much anything you want is obtainable for VERY GOOD price (ranging from live chickens to false moustaches to hash), and I predicted that we would find a shoe stall shortly. I was correct: a shoe seller appeared seemingly on cue. Admittedly, it was a men's shoe stall, but I was desperate and had no desire to contract Hepatitis C, so I began going through the gentleman's stocks. I have extremely small feet and I attempted to convey this notion to the seller, who kept on coming up with shoes that would have suited Bigfoot and no one else. By then we had attracted a crowd of nearby and idle men, sipping chai in the lingering evening heat and watching with rapt attention as I attempted to find a pair of shoes that would sort of, kind of fit.

I finally managed to find a pair of sneakers that didn't swallow up my feet and began negotiations. He wanted 350, I'd pay 200 - the inevitable bargaining dance in India. As is always present in these bargaining affairs, a Helpful Old Man stepped in and helped me get the price down to 230, which was acceptable for me. (I really really didn't want to factor communicative disease into my vacation plans. Also I saw no discount Jimmy Choo outlets within spitting distance of Old Delhi, which was really a shame.) So I laced up my very large sneakers which did not really go at all with the dress I was wearing and tromped on down the street.

Adam made witty commentary about how it was a miracle to finally see me in flats. I would definitely have hit him if I wasn't ill.

We finally found an open gate into the Red Fort grounds and walked in for a bit but were immediately shooed out by a rather aggressive guard. We finally found the other-other entrance and hung out and looked at the remains of the old fort's moat, which is now grown over with lush looking green grass. I maintain everything would be even more awesome if they filled it up with water again, though I guess there is a water shortage going on.

We both concluded we were exhausted and decided to go back - I had just about passed out on the railings over the moat, my eyes glazing over as I watched those ephemeral green parakeets hop into nooks in the walls. I hate that residual weakness that hangs over from sickness, when you just lose the will to live with depressing regularity.

We bargained for passage with one rickshaw and proceeded for a couple of blocks, until Adam figured out that they were calling him a stupid motherfucker in Hindi. He got angry and insisted we get out - "You're not going to cheat me AND insult me!" Thankfully we managed to find another with slightly less of a criminal aspect.

We passed by the original Moti Mahal restaurant on the way back to the International Centre, which apparantly is the actual origin point of butter chicken. Next time I'm in Delhi. Next time.

We managed to direct the driver to the Centre. Adam says that next time I come to Delhi I should stay somewhere easier to find. I'm thinking the actual top of the Qutub Minaret. Or I suppose I could take up residence in Humayun's tomb. Maybe I could stamp tickets.

I loathe saying goodbye to people and generally prefer to avoid doing it if at all possible. However people find this strange and they are probably correct. In any case, I gave Adam two slightly-rib crushing hugs and told him (with complete honesty) that I would miss the hell out of him. Then I walked away and didn't look back because you have to do these things this way.

I hate missing people.

I didn't miss anyone for long, however, as I was so exhausted that I fell asleep and didn't wake up again until 2 am - I even missed dinner, which is a real testament to how tired I was. (i do not miss meals for anything even nuclear attack.)